


Worth It

by seiden_spinner



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Awkward Romance, Developing Relationship, M/M, Percival is Irish-American, Pre-Canon, Theseus is an Animagus, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 11:36:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17042999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seiden_spinner/pseuds/seiden_spinner
Summary: Percival dares not speak what's on his mind. That doesn't mean he won't do what he can to protect the one he cares about the most, though.





	Worth It

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Из топей и холмов](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16987530) by [seiden_spinner](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seiden_spinner/pseuds/seiden_spinner). 



> Originally I wrote this thing in Russian and then I thought – well, I haven't translated anything unrelated to work in a while, why not give it a try? So I did. Also, I'm including info on some things mentioned in the text in the end notes, so check them maybe :)
> 
> I hope you enjoy the reading!

‘Whoa, someone had quite a night!’ cries Williams, distracting Percival from stirring the simmering brew they’re gonna have for breakfast.

He turns his head to the sound. The reason behind such agitation stands just a few steps away, rubbing his eyes, and his hair looks like an honest to god bird’s nest, if only auburn.

Theseus has grown his hair quite long lately, and seemingly lost all control over it. Every morning he solemnly swears to do something about that as he struggles with it, and yet the next morning the situation repeats itself. The only thing Percival doesn’t understand is why his friend bothers to make promises at all: he himself is perfectly okay with Theseus and his mane as it is, and he would’ve bet money that their comrades wouldn’t be too happy about losing something to make innocent fun of.

‘Let me guess,’ Graves says, making his contribution into the metaphorical Innocent Fun Jar. ‘You were chasing some – ugh, what-d'you-call-'em – some Mavkas around the woods all night, and fell asleep right there.’

Theseus raises his eyebrows, clearly perplexed, and shakes his head; a soft black feather falls gently on his shoulder. That’s how it is, then.

There’s something not right about seeing Theseus like this – sleepy, sloppy, and painfully homey even in his uniform. Wrong time, wrong place, everything’s wrong, except the man himself. If only there was a camera here, Percival muses, mesmerized by the rays of sunshine tangled in the elf knots. If only there was a way to capture Theseus as he is now, completely out of place in this war, just in case he–

To hell with ‘just in case’, Percival thinks, interrupting his own train of thought. To hell with that defeatist attitude, Private Graves, it’s way too early to give up hope.

Quickly he enchants a long wooden spoon – let the damn thing stir whatever the guys made by itself – and rises to his feet. He checks his pocket for a comb (it’s there, of course) and says:

‘Come with me now, dearest one.’

‘Where to?’ Theseus replies, winking the last traces of sleep away.

‘Somewhere where you can wash your face, of course. Come on, you wouldn’t want to attend our little family breakfast like this, would you?’

Sitting on the bank of the creek, he patiently waits for Theseus to finish his morning routine. Eventually, Percival forces himself to look the other way – the sight of water drops, trickling down the tanned neck, is just too much. That water most definitely tastes like swamp, Graves thinks in spite of himself, an honest to god swamp with toads, ooze, and whatnot.

As if he could scare himself with the swamp and its inhabitants, really.

‘What’s wrong?’ Theseus wonders in response to his frustrated snorting. ‘What happened?’

 _You happened_ , he aches to say but he’s sane enough to keep it to himself.

‘Toads,’ he snaps instead. ‘Stupid toads and Percival Graves, a good but also stupid American fella, is what happened.’

Theseus stares at him, his eyes wide, but he waves it off and pats the grass by his side.

‘You done with your ablutions? If you are, c’mere, let’s make you look more like a human.’

‘Have I not–’

‘I’m not talking about the feathers. You lost them on our way here, anyway. Come on, hurry up! Or you’re a fan of ice cold porridge or whatever it was for breakfast?’

That strikes where it should – they happen to hastily choke down the said porridge way too often to hold any tender feelings for it.

‘Are you sure about Mavkas, though?’ Percival teases good-naturedly as he runs his fingers through the shock of Theseus’ hair. ‘I’ve never seen knots like these in my life.’

‘What’s you deal with Mavkas?’ the Brit says with a sigh. ‘But to answer your question, yes, I’m sure. They have nothing to do with my hair, and you know that, just as you know that I went scouting last night.’

‘You mean, you flied.’

‘I mean I walked and I flied and I walked some more, and then I crawled along the ravine floor, and after that I did the very same thing, except backwards. And yes, I don’t remember where or when I fell asleep.’

‘All right, all right, you’ve made your point,’ Graves says in an apologetic way. ‘ _I was worried, how do you not understand this’_ burns his tongue but he remains silent, as if there will be no coming back once these words escape his lips.

As if he didn’t reach the point of no return several months ago, really.

‘I’ll do my best to be gentle but you’d better hold still, you know, just in case,’ he warns as he retrieves his simple wooden comb from his pocket. An ivory comb would be better for what he has in mind but as they say, _à la guerre comme à la guerre._

‘What are you up to?’ Theseus asks, and who knows if he understands more or less than it seems.

‘Nothing that might bring dishonor upon your name, I promise.’

At that his friend – oh yes, so much for a _friend_ , whom exactly is he trying to fool? – blushes as violently as only the redheads can.

‘Well, if you says so.’

It’s now Percival’s turn to let out a heavy sigh. If only Theseus knew where exactly one Percival Graves would like to shove those promises, they wouldn’t be sitting so peacefully on this creek bank. Or sharing the tent, for that matter.

‘Okay, that’s it. Turn around and sit still.’

He gets a better grip on the comb and starts untangling the knots, whispering in Irish as he goes. Now he wishes he were more diligent in studying the language of his ancestors – although he knows how to pronounce the words, their meaning is lost on him here and there. Yet still, the rhythm beats in his veins and runs through each and every bone and ligament in his body – and that, as he knows from the one that used to sing those words to him instead of a lullaby, is more than enough.

Strand by strand he calls upon every hillock and pebble, every river, lake, and carr, every breeze and hurricane, every lightning and shooting star, every branch and blade of grass, everything that flies and crawls; knot by knot he calls upon them all, relying on their grace, pleading honestly and humbly, _Here sits my dearest one, please keep him safe_.

Theseus doesn’t know any Irish (they figured that out a long time ago), yet somehow he seems to understand what exactly is going on behind his back:

‘Something that happens to be my heart is telling me you’re not just combing my hair.’

‘Shh.’

He repeats the words more ancient than the ground they’re sitting on, over and over, again and again; the air thickens around the two of them by the second, and the comb all but glides through Theseus’ hair. That’s a telltale sign he’s succeeding, and it feels like a good place to stop – well, _almost_ feels that way because something inside him keeps pushing him forward, something whispers from the depths of his entire being, _Keep singing, oh child of hills and mires, you have not said the whole truth yet, keep singing your song until it’s done._

And so he sings, silently, his lips barely moving. He sings about something he knows like no one else, something he hears every day from the dispatches and reports; he calls out to every bullet, spell, and landmine that can end the life of anyone who took up a wand and a bayonet, and he chants, _Here sits the one without whom I’m not myself, please, please let him live_.

No one sang that to him before, no one ever taught him that. For all he knows, it comes to life right now – under his tongue, under his fingers, under his ribs – but it’s gonna work, he’s got no doubt about that.

‘You’re crazy,’ Theseus whispers, stiff as a board, once he puts the comb down. ‘I mean, you’ve just–’

‘Yeah,’ says Percival – no longer a child of the enchanted land, but merely Percival, a stupid but good American fella, with his blood hot and his skin soft. And that’s exactly what it takes him to lean forward and finally bury his face in the auburn halo, redolent of water and vervain. And even if Theseus runs from him like the plague after that – so be it, and to hell with this bank and their tent. Either way, it was worth it.

‘May I– May I turn around?’

‘Go for it,’ he mutters, not holding his breath in the slightest. ‘It’s over now.’

One of the most thrilling things about Theseus, Percival thinks a couple of seconds later, is that ability of his to prove people wrong without saying a word.

The other thrilling things about Theseus are his iron nerves, his strong arms, and his soft lips. And his stubble, of course, as it turns out to be soft to the touch, too.

‘Next time,’ says the one that means more to him than all America, Britain, and the rest of the goddamn world altogether. ‘I suggest you start with saying, _Theseus, please be careful_.’

‘Do you seriously expect me to believe it’s gonna work on you?’

‘All the more reason for you to try.’

***

They’re late for their little family breakfast, in the end.

‘Guess who’s gonna be late for their own funeral,’ grumbles Williams, as he passes them their bowls of porridge – ice cold, just as Percival predicted. ‘Seriously, guys, we figured you went scouting or something.’

‘You could say that,’ Theseus replies nonchalantly and takes a mouthful of porridge right away, as if that could somehow save him from being questioned.

As if there ever was a way of keeping their comrades from asking you anything, really.

Theseus chuckles, elbows those sitting next to him, and promises to tell the fine gentlemen everything they want to know on the condition they let him finish his meal first.

Percival watches him over the brim of his own bowl, takes in the soft light the man’s radiating all around him, and thinks, _Definitely, definitely worth it_.

**Author's Note:**

> Mavka is a type of female spirit in Ukrainian mythology. She is a long-haired figure, sometimes naked, who may be dangerous to young men. They were believed to live in groups in forests, mountain caves, or sheds, which they decorated with rugs.  
> (source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mavka)
> 
> À la guerre comme à la guerre (French) – literally "at war as at war".  
> (source: https://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/à_la_guerre_comme_à_la_guerre)


End file.
